


Awake

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's having feverish dreams, and Sherlock takes it upon himself to help out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

Sherlock fisted his doctor’s cock tenderly, soft hands ghosting over the sensitive skin. In the murky, tepid darkness, John could make out neither his face nor his pale body, but he could feel the other man’s heat smother him, could hear his heart pounding against his own. He was burning up under Sherlock’s clever fingers – one hand still sliding gently up, then down, a touch so unbearably light the doctor could hardly stand it, the other brushing at John’s lower back, stroking the slick skin – his every vein pulsing with fire, his heady blood running sluggish and strange and mucking up his thoughts. A thumb caressed the head of his cock, the other tracing the cleft of his ass, and John couldn’t help but fist his hands in the detective’s curly hair and wantonly thrust his hips forward.  
  
“Sherlock. Please,” he pleaded, sweat beading and dripping from his brow. He could feel the other man smile impishly into his neck and then, at last, a palm closed about his erection and began to pull. John moaned, pushing into the hand, demanding a faster pace, and the detective complied. The hand at his back slid lower, pushing at his buttocks, until –  
  
“Oh God, Sherlock,” John managed. A single languid finger probed inward, gentle and slow, even as the other hand pumped at him wildly. As soon as it went past the knuckle, it paused and slid back out, and John cried out with loss, but then it slid back in, much faster than before, then out, then in again. It was too much.  
  
He rode his orgasm hard, unable to stop a yell from tearing out of his throat, his hands clawing into space. The stifling air seemed suddenly unbearable to him and his next breath could hardly fill his lungs, as if he was attempting to breathe through a wet towel. The suffocating sensation made him thrash out and his hand connected with something, something odd and bony.  
  
His other hand was caught in a vice grip, and it tugged him up out of the fog, into – where? His bedroom, his upstairs bedroom in his shared flat on Baker Street, which he inhabited alongside his impossible detective. This same detective who was, at this very moment, pinning his limbs steady and looking at him curiously.  
  
“John, you all right?”  
  
“I – what? ‘Scuse me,” he mumbled, wrenching his wrists away and kicking out of his bedsheets. He felt full and hot, so very hot, the space behind his knees and the pits of his collarbones damp with perspiration. He wiped his forehead off on the sleeve of his pyjamas. As his vision focused in the dim early-morning light, he could perceive Sherlock’s pale, alien figure by his bedside, his piercing eyes unreadable.  
  
“I heard yelling,” the detective persisted, and John remembered the intense rushing orgasm he’d experienced just moments before. If he hadn’t already been a healthy beet colour, he would’ve flushed dramatically.  
  
“Nightmares,” he said, and then, “Bloody hot in here, isn’t it?”  
  
Sherlock ignored this. “You were thrashing like a madman.”  
  
“I was dreaming I was smothering. I didn’t hit you, did I?”  
  
Sherlock raised a shoulder. “Hardly.”  
  
John found he couldn’t look the other man in the eye. “Ah, well, sorry, Sherlock. Thanks, I suppose, for waking me.”  
  
“I was awake anyway. Don’t look so…” he paused a moment, searching. “Cowed.”  
  
The stickiness in his pyjama bottoms was becoming more apparent by the moment. “I suppose I’ll try to go back to sleep, then. Some of us are human,” he added, noting Sherlock’s petulant expression. “You might be ready to pull an all-nighter, but I’m still exhausted after yesterday’s chase.”  
  
Sherlock eyed him, twirled his hand haphazardly as if to say well, if it suits you, and swept out the door.  
  
As soon as he heard his flatmate reach the bottom of the steps, John bolted out of bed to clean himself up. Of all people, it had been Sherlock who had done this to him. Sherlock, his maddening detective, pressed intimately close, his lithe hands on John’s body, in John’s body. For the next half hour, he laid on his bed and tried to think about women and the cardiovascular system and the elements of the periodic table, anything, anything, to chase away the searing heat of that damnable dream. When he finally slept again, it was deep and dreamless.


End file.
